


Broken Bits of You and Me

by RockingItInAParallelUniverse



Series: Songs of The Smiths [7]
Category: Marrissey - Fandom, The Smiths
Genre: All Good Things Come to an End, Angst and Feels, How Close Is Too Close, Impossible relationships, M/M, Unrequited Love, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, how did we end up here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-04
Updated: 2020-02-04
Packaged: 2021-02-25 10:55:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22494946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RockingItInAParallelUniverse/pseuds/RockingItInAParallelUniverse
Summary: Johnny's perspective on being the object of Morrissey's affection
Relationships: Johnny Marr/Morrissey
Series: Songs of The Smiths [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1499339
Comments: 7
Kudos: 28





	Broken Bits of You and Me

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by 'Is It Really So Strange' off Louder than Bombs - 1986
> 
> Title from 'Only A Memory' - song by The Smithereens
> 
> I've been feeling angsty and unsettled and this one-shot is the result. This is fiction with a bit of accuracy as far as dates and places.

May 1984 - Paris, France

“Look, Moz. You are a great guy. I know there is someone out there for you. You just have to put yourself out there. Take a risk. And get over this silly notion that you’re in love with me,” I tell him. The words are out of my mouth without a thought. Shit. I probably shouldn’t have started this conversation so soon after smoking a few blunts.

Morrissey looks at me like I’m hammering nails with a screwdriver. “I don’t remember saying that I’m in love with you, Johnny.”

“Oh, come off it, Mozzer. Even Angie can see it.”

“No, Johnny. I am certain I have never told anyone that I am in love with you. Never once. I recall saying you were special to me. That without you, there would be no The Smiths. But love? Not once.”

“I know, Morrissey. I saw it in your eyes last night on stage. You know when we danced to ‘Barbarism’?”

“Oh yes. But did you see your own eyes during that dance? Because I sure did. I didn’t force you to jettison your guitar to dance with me. You did that all by yourself. And your eyes were on me. Angie was nowhere to be found. You weren’t looking at her. You were looking at me.”

“That was a performance!”

“Perhaps you should take up acting, then. You were quite convincing.”

Shit. This encounter is going in the entirely wrong direction. I just wanted to give him a pep talk, make him see that I'm not the one he wants. And now he's throwing our partnership back in my face. Last night, the music did something to me. That, combined with the energy from the crowd, the hot lights, and Moz's tongue flicking and hip swaggering sort of carried me away. Moz is already walking a half a block ahead of me when I decide to drop the subject.

******

May 1985 - Barcelona, Spain

"I love you, Morrissey," I say and I place my hand on his shoulder. "You are my best mate. I love working with you. But I can't love you how you want me to."

He stares at my hand, licks his lips and returns his eyes to mine. "You are not privy to my every thought and desire. You don't know my mind."

"I call bullocks. Your lyrics say everything you can't speak. I'm not saying this to hurt you. That's the last thing I want to do. You are a good and worthy man. I know you are capable of loving someone else. Just don't waste your time on me."

He looks as if I smacked him across the face. "Do you really think we can pick and choose who we love? You can't possibly believe that's how it works." His expression is so condescending, like I ate a rock and told him it was a potato.

"Well, yeah. To an extent," but he cuts me off before I can explain.

"So when you went to that party and first spoke to your beautiful Angie, you would have simply forgotten her if she said something like 'Gee, Johnny, I love talking to you and you're a lot of fun to be around and you understand me like no-one else, but I'm not interested in men. I'm in a relationship with Sheila but let's meet again tomorrow and bare our souls to each other. Sheila will pick you up.'"

"Don't be ridiculous," I try to laugh his stupid analogy off, but I feel slightly sick inside.

"Tell me how you wouldn't 'waste your time' with her, trying to convince her to open her eyes to see you as a human being, not as a gender she doesn't find attractive. I'd like to be a fly on the wall during that conversation. You tell me you knew from the moment you laid eyes on her that she was your everything, yet you'd choose someone else without a backwards glance if she'd told you she was a lesbian."

"For fucks sake. Angie's not a lesbian. I seriously doubt she'd have caught me eye if she was.."

"You're a fool, Johnny. A hypocritical fool if you expect me to believe you have some kind of "gaydar" that alerts you to who is straight and who is not on sight. And that you wouldn't love her with your entire being even if, perhaps, she didn't love you back."

Spain is so hot in the summer. That's why we're sitting shirtless on this terrace, trying to stay cool while I play him some new melodies. This used to be our time to relax, these few days between gigs and traveling to different venues. There is no way I can relax during a conversation like this. I miss my fiancé. I hate it when Morrissey's drivel actually makes sense. I hate it when he's right. I order another gin and tonic as he steps away from me and dives into the pool.

******

May 1986 - London, United Kingdom

"Johnny. What are you doing here?" Morrissey says after I arrive at his London flat. Since he's moved, I can't just show up on his doorstep in the wee hours of the morning to play for him like I did in our early days. It makes me smile thinking back on those times when he still lived in Manchester. He'd answer the door with his hair all fucked up from sleep, glasses askew and his ratty blue robe hastily thrown over his shoulders. He was always shirtless. Flannel pyjama bottoms, no shirt, ratty blue robe. The images your mind chooses to keep and cherish are so random and weird.

Tonight though, he looks like shit. Scruffy week-old beard, a "Save the Animals" t-shirt that's too small, and jeans that could fall off his scrawny arse at any moment. "I was inspired, Mozzer. And you are the first person I want to see when inspiration strikes." I lean heavily against the doorframe, guitar case in hand, mind happily fuzzy from pot. My guitar is my magic flute. The sounds I've coaxed out of it remind me of dreams long forgotten or maybe another time that existed well before I ever did. I'm so excited about these new dreamscapes, I hopped the first train I could catch down to London.

He motions me inside and I'm immediately worried. "Is everything alright?" I ask as I take in the disaster of this room. Dirty dishes everywhere. Empty take-away cartons. Empty bottles of liquor. Normally, Moz is a fucking neat freak.

"You've caught me quite by surprise. I would have tidied up had I known you were planning on visiting. Is Angie parking the car?"

"Nah. She having a girls' weekend. I'm all by my lonesome." A shadow passes across Moz's disheveled face. I wonder what that is about.

"Well, come in. Have a seat. Just move the rubbish to the floor if you can't find an open spot. I know you don't mind. I've been in a similar situation when I used to visit your old attic flat. Remember?"

"Oh yeah. This is all kind of nostalgic," I answer moving a stack of plates to the floor.

"Is that why you're here? Nostalgia?"

I'm confused. "No. I've written some new music. I want you to hear it." I told him that when he opened the door. It isn't like him not to listen.

He stares at me for a moment. He's got dark circles under his eyes. I think he may have lost weight even though I didn't think it possible. Both of us are rail thin. We get too lost in creating to remember to eat.

"Are you aware of tomorrow's date?"

His birthday is coming up, but not yet. Then it dawns on me. "Yeah. Our anniversary, right?"

He lets out a choking sob and I'm beside him in a flash. "What's wrong, Mozzer? Is there anything I can do?"

He squeezes his eyes closed and furiously shakes his head. I rub his shoulders as he desperately tries to regain control of his emotions. His large, icy hand covers my smaller, sweaty one that's gently kneading his upper arm. I immediately sandwich it between both of mine, trying to give him some warmth.

"I thought you'd forgotten. I haven't heard from you all month. I thought maybe it matters far more to me than it does to you," he says as he curls his slender fingers around mine.

"Oh no, Mozzer," I lie. "I'd never forget one of the most important days of my life. Meeting you changed everything. For both of us." I say a silent prayer of gratitude to whatever gods or goddesses had the forbearance to make me travel to London this particular weekend.

He pulls my hand to his cheek and rubs it against his stubble that has grown out enough to be soft. Something squeezes my heart. Here we are, four years into our partnership and I'm taking it for granted while Moz, well, isn't. I'm perched beside him on the armrest of his overstuffed chair. I wouldn't have to scoot much to be sitting in his lap. A shiver of pleasure runs up my spine at the thought.

"Oh, god! I must look a mess!" He starts, almost as if he senses my train of thought. "Let me go shower quickly, and shave and change into something nicer," he babbles. I hear his words but all I see are his lips, his scruffy beard, his hair so tangled it's begging me to run my fingers through it.

"Yeah. You go do that. I'll just help you pick up a bit down here." I need to busy my hands before I do something regrettable.

Once we've set the flat to right again, I convince Moz to go out to dinner with me. There's a fantastic curry place just down the street and it's calling my name. We get seated right away as the staff appear starstruck. A small crowd gathers at our table and Morrissey lights up at the attention and praise. We sign things, pose for a few pictures and Moz dismisses the fans with utmost decorum.

"I don't think I'll ever get used to this," he says with a shy smile into his menu.

"You'd better. Everyone loves you and you're the face of the best fucking band in the world." It's wonderful to see him so pleased. Especially after the state I'd found him in earlier.

"Are you traveling back tonight?" he asks as we wait for our food.

"Wasn't planning on it, " I answer between sips of my beer. "Do you mind if I stay at yours?"

"Of course not. You're always welcome to stay."

We enjoy our meal and our casual conversation returns as though we've never been separated. Being like this with Morrissey is like wearing my favorite hoody, warm and comforting. When we go back to his flat, I play him a sampling of the songs I've written and pass the cassette of the completed melodies for him to add his words. It's how we've always worked together.

"These are beautiful," Morrissey says of my dreamscapes. "Is that what it's like in your head?"

I'm caught off guard by his observation. "Yeah, I guess it is. I just have to quiet all the other noise in there to hear it." I'm surprised when he doesn't reply with a smart arse comment. 

"Well I'm beat, man. I'm gonna call it a night,” I tell him as my hand rests a little too long on his shoulder. I rub his bony clavicle with my thumb.

"I'm going to listen to the cassette and see if I can pull some lyrics from the tunes,” he says without looking at me.

"That sounds great. Goodnight, Moz." My voice rings hollow.

"Goodnight, Johnny." And I watch him cover his ears with his headphones as I make my way to the guest room.

******

I wake to the smell of something cooking. Damn, it smells good. I'm shocked to see Morrissey standing in front of the stove when I wander downstairs.

"You can cook?"

He turns and smiles at me. "Of course I can cook. Most of the time I choose not to. Do you still like pancakes?"

"Yeah, I do. What possessed you to cook this morning?"

He deftly flips the pancakes with a spatula. "It's our anniversary. I didn't fancy creating a stir with our presence in public."

I pour some tea and sit down. Morrissey is such a walking contradiction. He adores the fans at our gigs. He seemed to enjoy himself last night, yet here he is, shunning the spotlight for solitude. Well, not solitude, I guess, because I'm with him.

"I put pen to paper last night. The dreamier songs should go on our next record, but there's a rockabilly sounding one I would like to play with now," he says, joining me at the table.

"Alright. Let's have a look after we eat. I want us to be able to enjoy all your hard work over the hot stove."

He colors slightly. "It doesn't take much effort to make pancakes, Johnny," he says but he looks pleased, nonetheless.

It's time like these I miss the most. With our success, we've had less and less time to slow down and just 'be' with each other. Someone or something always demands our attention. We settle on the sofa, Moz with his notebook, me with a guitar, and go over this new music.

"This is what I have so far for the rockabilly song. I welcome your thoughts."

Moz is full of shit. He only welcomes positive affirmations. I've made two suggestions in all the time we've worked together about his lyrics. Two. And I've felt like an idiot both times. But I take the notebook from him and read his familiar scrawl.

I left the North

I traveled South

I found a tiny house

And I can't help the way I feel

Oh yes, you can kick me

And you can punch me

And you can break my face

But you won't change the way I feel

'Cause I love you

And is it really so strange?

Oh, is it really so strange?

Oh, is it really so, really so strange?

I say NO, you say YES

(and you will change your mind)

I strum a few notes from the song, trying to tamp down my gut reaction. Another one. Yet another song that is eerily similar to our conversations. Another reason for Angie to look at me sideways. More fuel for the fires of speculation in the press about our relationship. I can't express what it's like to play songs that rip your heart out with every line. Still, this has the makings of genius. And that's what I tell Morrissey.

"This is good, stuff, Mozzer. I can't wait to hear how you work these lines into the beat. I love the dreariness and violence in the words partnered with the upbeat, rockabilly music."

His blue eyes are alight with warmth and pleasure from my praise. I'm suddenly tired. Even this early in the day after breakfast, I'm exhausted beyond belief. I'm not sure how much longer I can do this. It's like I'm losing bits and pieces of myself with every song we write. Soon there will be nothing left of me but dust and memories.

******

May 1987 - Streatham, London, United Kingdom

"Morrissey had this song 'I Keep Mine Hidden', which was basically Morrissey saying, 'I'm sorry, Johnny. I'm a complete fuck up but please forgive me.' With lots of specific references, it was a very direct song."

\- Grant Showbiz, Uncut, 1998

Next week at this time, I will be in LA. It's the only thing keeping me going, at this point. I'm not sure why the fuck we are here in a recording studio. We haven't any songs written to record.

"What's your problem, Johnny? I thought you lived for this shit? You hate touring and love working on records, right? Isn't that what you say?" Morrissey is in my face, waving an empty wine bottle like a mace. I can practically get drunk off his breath. I don't know this man.

I pull out my guitar and begin twanging away at it. Just hammering out some stupid be-boppy, Elvis-wannabe shit riffs. "Here you go, Moz. Just how you like it, right? All jangly and basic, yeah?" I savor the look on his face. He doesn't know me, either.

The floor tilts under my feet and I lose my balance. I can't remember the last time I ate. I've been sleeping here at the studio, desperately trying to sort out the pile of shit left from our latest manager's hasty departure. Holding my guitar close, I ease me way down onto the sofa. I will protect my instrument at all costs.

"Johnny, you don't look so good," Moz squints his eyes at me as I sink deeper into the sofa. If I had any energy left in me at all, I'd take a swing at his pompous face.

"I'm tired, Morrissey." My brown eyes are weary. My body is weary. I would rather be anywhere but here.

Someone is crying. I can hear hiccuping sobs. It might be me. But it's not. It's Morrissey and he leans against me sat on the sofa, his body wracked with sorrow. My hands are full with my guitar. I have nothing available to comfort him.

"Where's your bracelet?" he sniffles, taking my wrist in his hands.

"It gets in the way," I say not really understanding how this skeletal, pale arm is mine. "It's too loose and interferes with my strumming."

Morrissey's hands cradle my face then. I don't want to look him in the eye, but old habits die hard. We stare at each other's faces, searching for traces of the people we once were. It's like a bizarre game of chicken. Who will crumble first? He gently lifts my chin, turns my head to the side, lightly fingers the hoop in my ear. "You hate me, don't you?" At least he's direct for once.

"I hate who we are right now. I mean really, who the fuck are we?" I gesture to the wine bottle on the floor, my guitar half-on, half-off my lap.

We sit side by side, shoulder to shoulder on an ugly green couch in a barn that's now a recording studio. We're recording our epitaph. "Do you still love me, Moz?" I ask whilst staring at the wall.

I can feel him flinch as if I landed a punch to his side. "Probably too much, John," he shakily replies. I appreciate his honesty.

My lips brush his temple. "I love you too, Steven," and he sobs as his given name floats from my mouth. "I just need some time off. We all do. Just a short break."

He nods, clinging to this lie. We pull ourselves together and prepare to finish the recording session.

******

On the flight to LA, I allow myself to sleep. My dreams are soundless visions from 1982 when everything was just an idea, a possibility. When I wake up and look at the white clouds billowing past the window, I can't shake the feeling I've forgotten something important from home. That thought haunts me through every interview, every kiss I give to Angie, each drink I down in an effort to force it away. It's stubborn and relentless; a jagged scar that I will carry for the rest of my life.

**Author's Note:**

> From passionsjustlikemine's blog :" (Is It Really So Strange) has been performed live 35 times by The Smiths...It was done every night of the 1986 Queen Is Dead tour bar a few breaks and a few concerts that ended earlier than planned. It has been performed live a further 99 times by Morrissey after The Smiths. It was on the setlist every night without fail on the 1999 - 2000 Oye Esteban tour. It returned on the 2009 Swords tour where it was done at every stop bar two."


End file.
